


It's a Dream, It's a Lie, It's the Truth

by Liron_aria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s11e04 Baby, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, POV Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liron_aria/pseuds/Liron_aria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not-John smirks at him. “God helps those who help themselves."</p>
<p>Not-John looks back at the road, and Sam feels feverish, he’s burning, and It’s not - it can’t be - not him -</p>
<p>“Who <i>are</i> you?” Sam demands, and he can feel Michael’s grace roll through him, moving in one direction, reaching, please please please <i>no</i> -</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Dream, It's a Lie, It's the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who follows Twitter, Matt Cohen is full of shit.
> 
> For my regular readers, y'all know how much I like writing about Sam and the Cage.
> 
> So when Matt turned up, it should come as no surprise that my first thought was Michael, and _stayed _Michael through his entire scene - and thus this fic was born.__
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.__  
> 

_“… A good word to say…"_

 

Someone’s singing. 

 

_“… Guess it’s ‘cause he’s just as wild…"_

 

Wild, like Brady’s laughter when they were crashing hard at the end of Hell Week. So much Red Bull. Waaaaay too much Red Bull, wings and all. 

 

_“… In the younger days…"_

 

Young kids with the world at their feet, before fire burned it all away, scorched earth and blood and ashes. 

 

_“… So blow, you Old Blue Northern…"_

 

Sam startles awake, jerking back at the rush of flames - 

 

A dream. 

 

Just a dream, there's no fire here. 

 

He yawns and blinks groggily, trying to process the words. A woman - what song even is this? 

 

_“… Blow my love to me…"_

 

“What are you listening to?” He mumbles to Dean incredulously, trying to shake the cobwebs out and rubbing his forehead. 

 

“Your Mom used to love this song,” Michael says, and Sam’s wide awake in an instant, heart hammering. 

 

Michael. 

 

Black hair, pale green eyes, tall without the dogtags John normally wore. 

 

_John._

 

Not Michael. 

 

His heart lurches again and he tries to breathe. “Dad?" 

 

John smiles, a little confused, and asks, “You okay, pal?" 

 

What -  

 

What the Hell - 

 

What is this, a ghost - _can’t be, Dad’s burned_ \- a hallucination - _please god, not again_ \- an angel - _not Michael, no he’s gone -_  

 

“You look a little spooked,” John continues, brow furrowing. 

 

Spooked. 

 

Good word choice. 

 

Sam can only stare. He feels warm, skin prickling. He wants to take off his jacket, but if he moves - he doesn’t know what’ll happen. Will the illusion shatter, revealing Dean? God, Dean would be so disappointed, baby brother’s noggin broke again. 

 

If he moves, will John - _not Dad, can’t be Dad_  - leap and attack? 

 

John keeps smiling gently, turning back to watch the road.. 

 

Sam keeps staring, stunned. 

 

Dad’s… happy. He only vaguely remembers what this looked like, but that smile - he’d seen it when Dean regaled him with his escapades at school, his enthusiastic retellings of their hunts. 

 

He _thinks_ he’s seen it when _he_  came home from school, excited about classes and clubs, his words tumbling over each other - but that was so long ago, washed away by years of hunting, of fights and rebellion and yearning for something _more._  

 

He knows for a fact he’s seen this man, this smile, when he travelled back in time, before Michael took his vessel. 

 

Sweat beads across the back of his neck, and he really needs to stop thinking about Michael. 

 

John laughs softly under his breath and turns off the cassette player. “It’s nice to be back behind the wheel. Looks like Dean’s taken good care of this old beast.” John looks him over. “Seems like he’s taken good care of you, too." 

 

Uh. 

 

Sure. 

 

What the Hell. 

 

“What is this?” Sam replies instead, “Another vision?" 

 

“Are you having visions, son?” John asks, and the shock fades away to displeasure. 

 

Not John. 

 

Dad would never ask him about his visions with that curious, amused voice. Hell, he knows this from _experience._  

 

Whoever this is, _what_ ever this is, it’s not his father, and fuck them if they think they can call him ‘ _son.'_  

 

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, brow creased in warning. 

 

Not-John clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “What? A father can’t call his -" 

 

“No, my father is _dead.”_ Heat streaks through his veins. 

 

“When has death ever stopped a Winchester?” Not-John teases with a grin. 

 

Sam forces his breath calm, clenching his fists as he forces the heat back. “Look, I don’t know what this is, but -" 

 

“What you said about relationships,” Not-John continues, watching the road, “Wanting something more…" 

 

John swallows, stifling a sigh. He doesn’t look away from the road, because when he wasn’t imitating a special forces tactical driving instructor, he was one of the most conscientious drivers Sam knew. 

 

_Eyes on the road, hands on the wheel, always scan the mirrors, stay alert._

 

“I never wanted this for you boys. This life. Not really." 

 

Yeah, that Sam knows. John never acted on that want, fucked up any hope of achieving it, but Sam knows. Understands. 

 

He’d wanted to have this conversation, once. He’d told it to that young, unburdened version of his father, how he wished he could talk to his Dad one last time and tell him, get some closure instead of all those regrets. 

 

He’s had this conversation a hundred times, over and over for Michael and Lucifer’s pleasure. Over and over until he got it _right_ , until he said what _They_  wanted. 

 

He measures his words, tugging out the memories of what _he_  wants. “We turned out okay." 

 

John smiles ruefully. “You did, didn’t you? But that was on you boys. You did that, not me." 

 

Sam’s lips quirk. “Well, you played your part." 

 

“I did my best, anyway." John scoffs. “For what it was worth." 

 

All the right words, and Sam knows this is a dream. It’s too kind, too cruel, a game for two pissed off archangels toying with him until he breaks. 

 

No. 

He’s out. Michael’s grace itches under his skin, because countless millennia - five to seven, he did the math, but fuck only knows how long it really was - left him with both archangels’ marks, but he’s _out._  

 

“This isn’t real." 

 

There’s a silence, and Not-John’s smile widens. “I never could fool you, could I?" 

 

Who, John? Or Michael? 

 

Not-John looks at him wryly, and this isn’t about closure or torture, this is something else. 

 

“I prayed when I was in that church,” Sam says, taking a gamble, “And I saw…” His past. His future. The Void would be a blessing compared to where he’ll end up. “ _Something._ " 

 

Chains digging into him, pulling, tearing, a facsimile his mortal mind created for him to explain a binding on a plane he couldn’t comprehend. 

 

“And now, here you are, whoever you are. _Whatever_  you are. What the Hell _is_  this?" 

 

Heat sears through him, and no, no, these things have _nothing to do with each other -_  

 

“Dream.” Not-John replies evenly. “Vision, call it what you want. The message is still the same.” Not-John turns to him, grim. “The Darkness is coming." 

 

Sam’s eyebrows rise.  So this _is_  a vision. A sign. 

 

“And only you boys can stop it." 

 

_How?!_

 

How are he and Dean supposed to _stop_  this, this primordial evil, _when they know nothing?!_  

 

“Okay,” Sam replies tersely, “Fine. _How?_ We need help, not visions of dead people." 

 

Not-John smirks at him. “God helps those who help themselves." 

 

Not-John looks back at the road, and Sam feels feverish, he’s burning, and It’s not - it can’t be - not him - 

 

“Who _are_  you?” Sam demands, and he can feel Michael’s grace roll through him, moving in one direction, reaching, please please please _no -_  

 

A truck horn blares, headlights beaming behind John - _Dad watch out it’s going to crash -_  

 

Sam lurches up with a start. 

 

“Welcome to the Winchester motel,” Dean says dryly, his face illuminated by his laptop screen and a nearby streetlamp. 

 

Right. He’s in the back seat, where he’d gone to sleep, not riding shotgun. How did he miss that the first time around? 

 

“We don’t have cable,” Dean continues, reaching for a beer, “but we do have room service." 

 

Sam bites back a groan and sits up, taking the can from his brother. He can still see Michael - _John,_ it was _John,_ wasn’t it? _-_  in his mind’s eye. 

 

“You were singing in your sleep.” Dean’s lips press in a thin line, his expression becoming clouded. “That song Mom loved that Dad used to always play for us. I think I've actually still got the tape." 

 

_“… So blow, you Old Blue Northern…"_

 

_“Your Mom used to love this song."_

 

Sam inhales deeply, casting around for the right words. “Hey, Dean? … You said when you saw the Darkness, you weren’t sure whether it was, ah… the real thing or a vision, right?" 

 

Dean nods. “Mhmm." 

 

“I think I’ve been having visions, too, lately." 

 

Dean shifts, and Sam doesn’t want to see old, familiar, wariness and distrust, so he scrambles to explain, “I mean, it’s just images - I mean, more of a _feeling_ , really. But I just had one, right now, and - and _Dad_  was in it." 

 

Dean’s brow furrows in bewilderment. 

 

“But it wasn’t Dad like - like the Dad that _I_  grew up with, it was Dad when he was our age. And I guess - it wasn’t even really Dad, it was someone pretending to _be_ Dad, and -" 

 

“Okay,” Dean cuts in, “What makes you say that?" 

 

Because Michael liked John as a vessel, why else? 

 

“For starters, he told me everything I wanted to hear." 

 

Dean shakes his head. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound like Dad." 

 

Yeah, no shit. 

 

“No,” Sam agrees. "Anyways, whoever it was… They had a message to deliver. They said the Darkness is coming, and only you and I can stop it." 

 

“Did they happen to give you any helpful tips on how to do that?" 

 

“He said ‘God helps those who help themselves.’” Sam hesitates. “I mean… maybe these visions are coming from God?" 

 

Because that would be so much better than the alternative - 

 

“Whoa,” Dean warns, “Pump the brakes." 

 

“I mean, Dean, the first one happened after I prayed." 

 

Dean looks at him in surprise. “You prayed? When was this?" 

 

… Oh, crap. 

 

“Back in the hospital,” Sam admits. 

 

“Why?" 

 

He is in so much trouble for this. 

 

“Because I was infected,” he replies heavily. 

 

Dean’s expression turns fixed, and he sends him a look that _screams_  ‘Come again?' 

 

“I _was_  infected,” Sam assures him quickly, “I not anymore! I - I never went full rabid. I -" 

 

Dean shuts his laptop, and Sam remembers the Mark of Cain and the calm before the storm. “You got infected, and you didn’t even tell me." 

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

 

“Dean -" 

 

“What did you pray about?" 

 

His skin starts to burn. “I guess I was just looking for answers, you know?" 

 

He can’t help but think of Michael -  _Micha'el, who is like God?_  - reaching out to him in place of God. He needs to stop, it isn’t real, there has to be another explanation. 

 

Dean nods, and the set of his jaw does nothing to calm Sam. “Well, I’m sure whatever is kicking around in your head right now is a side effect from the infection that you failed to tell me about." 

 

Sam shakes his head, remembering a different burn, holy oil cleansing him instead of fire and fury punishing him. “You know, I don’t think it’s that simple." 

 

“Com on, man,” Dean says, making a face. “That quote? ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ God didn’t say that. That’s not even in the Bible. That’s an old proverb that dates way back to Aesop." 

 

Euripides, actually, but close enough. 

 

“I read,” Dean defended. “And more importantly, when was the last time God answered any one of our prayers?" 

 

_Isaiah 59:2 - Your sins have hid His face from you, that He will not hear._

 

_Isaiah 1:15 - And when ye spread forth your hands, I will hide mine eyes from you: yea, when you make many prayers, I will not hear: your hands are full of blood._

 

Isaiah, Michael’s favoured prophet. 

 

“It’s not a vision, Sam,” Dean repeats. “Alright? It’s just some… Fever dream. That’s all." 

 

Fever? Yes. Dream? No. Michael’s grace is still pulsing under his skin, and somehow, he can’t just chalk it up to a trigger like he does with Lucifer. Not this time. 

 

“And as far as Dad goes… I dream about Dad all the time." 

 

Sam blinks. “You do?" 

 

“Of course I do. It’s usually the same one, too. We’re all in the car, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, Dad’s sitting shotgun. But there _aren’t_  any shotguns. There’s no monsters, there’s no hunting - there’s none of that. It’s just…” 

 

Dean looks wistful and a little sad. “He’s teaching me how to drive. And, uh, I’m not little like I was when he actually taught me to drive. I’m sixteen and he’s helping me get my learner’s permit. 

 

“Of course, you’re in the backseat, just begging to take a turn. We pull up to the house - the family house - and I park in the driveway, and he just looks over and he says, ‘Perfect landing, son.’" 

 

The normal life, the something more. Everything Sam ever wanted for Dean, and even Dad, though he never showed it. Everything Dean took forever to admit he wanted. 

 

“I have that dream every couple of months,” Dean finishes, “Kind of comforting, actually." 

 

Sam nods, subdued. “I always… Heh. I always dream about Mom. Usually the same kind of thing, though." 

 

Crusts cut off his sandwiches, little triangles. Lullabies and and smiles and how much she would have loved Jess. 

 

“Normal life?" 

 

“Yeah. Normal life.” _Safe_  life. 

 

Sam shakes his head, clearing away those thoughts. “But Dean, this _wasn’t_  just a dream, I’m telling you." 

 

Dean gestures in faint exasperation. “Why would somebody dress up like Dad to give you a message. I mean, _Dad._  You don’t exactly have a history of listening to what he had to say." 

 

No, but he had millennia of being forced to listen to Michael. 

 

No. 

 

Stop. 

 

_This isn’t Michael._  He’s locked away, _forever_ , he can’t touch  Sam anymore. Let this be God. Please, let this be God. 

 

“But you said the Darkness is - is sending messages to you. Maybe whatever is the _opposite_  of the Darkness is sending messages to me." 

 

“And you think that thing is God?" 

 

His skin’s burning, so yeah, that would be the preferred alternative.  

 

Dean scoffs. “Come on - how many opportunities has God had to crack this piñata, and I don’t see any candy on the floor, do you?" 

 

“Okay, then maybe it’s not God!” Maybe it really is Michael, God’s lieutenant, one of the handful of beings who fought back the Darkness. “But - I…" 

 

Sam trails off with a sigh. Never mind. 

 

He knows what he is, unclean -  _‘in the Biblical sense’_ Billie reminds him - no positive divine force is really going to contact him. 

 

The air around him is hot and arid, like breathing fire. Michael’s not a positive force, not really. He’s a monster, as much as his brother, but if he’s reaching out... 

 

The enemy of his enemy. 

 

“Look, I know what you’re trying to do here,” Dean says, cutting through the haze. "You’re trying to find some - some greater meaning to it all, right? Some fate to what went down." 

 

The Apocalypse was on them, was on _him_ , just like this, and there was fate to _that._  He has to believe there’s something more out there, that they’re not alone. Even with the Apocalypse - God saved him once, cleaned him of demon blood. God brought back Cas, brought back Bobby. 

 

God may not give a damn about him, but somewhere inside him, Sam knows He’s out there. 

 

Dean has other ideas. "But I’m telling _you_ , Sam, the Darkness? It’s on us. And no one’s gonna help us, certainly not God, so we’ll have to figure this thing out, like we always do. 

 

“But until then… we hunt." 

 

Sam thinks of Michael wearing his father’s face, of the grace he’s trying to wrangle back down. It’s dark enough that Dean can’t see the sweat dampening his undershirt, or the hair sticking to his neck. He can breathe again, and his body temperature’s veering down sharply the more he pushes down Michael’s grace. He feels cold and clammy and his skin’s prickling again and fuck, he’s so exhausted. 

 

If he sleeps again, will he dream? 

 

_The Darkness is coming,_  Michael reminds him. _You two are the only ones who can stop it._  

 

It’s always down to them, even if they have fuck all idea how to do it. 

 

But Dean’s right. They’ll figure it out, like they always do. 

 

And until then... 

 

… They hunt. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, thoughts?


End file.
